Mom

Mom sent me to my death, on Mother’s Day, no less.

Now, let me get this straight right from the start, I ain’t no writer.  This story comes right out of my head into this computer through my fingers as I remember it sitting here with a bottle of Jack and three packs of Marlboros.  But, every single word is true.  Read at your own fucking risk.

My dad died years ago, and I have no brothers or sisters.  My dad had no brothers or sisters, and my mom had no brothers or sisters.  I am in fact the end of the line for my lineage, so to speak.  There was just me and my mom when this story splattered onto my personal karmic canvas.  This is important.  It made me perfectly suited for my future career.  The first thing I should tell you is this:  At the end you are going to hate me with extreme prejudice.  There ain’t no way around that.  Sorry.

It all started when I was seventeen and joined the Marines.  I had to get out of the house.  Mom was driving me crazy since dad died, and I yearned for adventure and just like some idiot running off with the circus, I found myself up to my eye brows in pure torture and disdain.  Somehow I survived, and actually developed a taste for that shit.  Long story short a war broke out and my special skills became evident and in great demand, and promotions come quick when you kick ass and take names.  That is exactly what I did.  I was one of those guys that goes in ahead of everybody.  It was a target rich environment and that is how I became to be known as Pac Man.  I loved that shit.

But anyways, now you know I had a certain set of skills and so you will believe me when I say I was subsequently recruited by the NSA and trained extensively and put to work spying on Americans.   “Spying” is a great word.  Seriously, it could mean literally anything.  Any-thing.

I know most of you would think being an international spy would be much better than being just a national spy, but you are wrong.  First of all, foreign jails tend to suck much more than American jails—and are much more difficult for shady people to extract you from.  Second, only James Bond and Tom Cruise get to stay in luxury hotels and gamble for free.  So, me, I’m a home cooking type guy.  I love America and everything about it. Working at home was aces for me.

Professor Romani was supposed to have a heart attack that day.  He was old enough for it to seem legitimate, and if done correctly is undetectable.  But, of course, none of that shit happened.  And this is what got me started with my mother.  This professor guy was some physicist at the Ann Arbor University of Michigan department of Physics, and the leader of a terrorist cell.  By that time we had all intel on him we needed and so it was easier just to kill him.  Capturing these assholes was just becoming too much fucking grief.  Lame stream media.  So, I am in this guy’s house with a syringe full of heart attack juice and he is kneeling on a rug and his back is to me and everything is absolutely perfect until his bodyguard—no one had told me there was a bodyguard—yelled something in Arabic.  I popped him in the head twice, then popped Mr. Professor—who had by now turned and was facing me in absolute horror—in the face twice and a second later had to pop Mrs. Professor in the face twice because she had walked through the door, and then I had to pop the maid and some woman who turned out to be Mr. Professor’s daughter.  And then, on the way out the back door the fucking lawn mower guy is standing there with his Mexican helper and pop, pop, pop, pop again.  This shit was getting downright ridicules.  I finally made it back to the get-away car and got out of the neighborhood without having to kill anyone else.  That is exactly when I realized I had dropped the syringe back at the house.  I didn’t go back for it.  I had killed enough people for one afternoon.

When I got back to Headquarters, my bosses were pissed.  There were two problems.  One, there were fingerprints on that syringe—not mine, I was wearing surgical gloves, but the guy who handed it to me—who didn’t appreciate it exactly when I couldn’t contain a chuckle.  And problem number two: the juice in that syringe was top secret and now the terrorists had it.  There was one other thing, too.  The terrorists were pissed and wanted my ass in a fiery sling.  And that is exactly what brought mom into this fiasco.

The terrorists sent a picture of the syringe and a chemical breakdown of its contents and the fingerprint they had lifted off it and a demand for one billion United States dollars and the man who matched the fingerprint—to the FBI of all people.  That is when shit got real stupid.

I was hoping for a few weeks off but instead was working 24/7 looking for these asshole terrorists with the syringe.  Of course, the FBI, CIA, DEA, Secret Service, the Marshals Service, Interpol and Homeland Security were looking for them, as well.  The resulting clusterfuck only became worse when the terrorists “leaked” out their threats and demands to the lame stream media and the Internets.  They claimed they could mass produce enough of that heart attack juice to pollute all the rivers and lakes in America, and would happily do so.  They sent a very small sample to the French government for verification and them asshole Frogs sure enough verified that it was indeed heart attack poison.  We knew they couldn’t reproduce that stuff in quantity, but we couldn’t exactly tell anyone.   We had gone into pure CYA mode.

Mr. Fingerprint freaked out, of course, took a leave of duty and retreated to his cottage on a lake in Kentucky.  When he hadn’t answered his phone in two days they sent me out to investigate.  I found him and his family and it was not pretty.  They were tortured before they were brutally killed which means they had been interrogated and that meant my cover was blown.  I called it in immediately.  They told me to get the Hell out of there and stay off the grid.  Yeah, right.  A few hours later a somewhat blurry photo of me taken during the war by some embedded asshole correspondent appeared on the Internets.  The terrorists put a million dollar bounty on my head.

In the next few weeks seven men were shot and killed all because they somewhat resembled the guy in that photograph.  Another ten were wounded and countless were arrested and detained.  Finally, some asshole wised up and tracked my mom down and when I got the call, he was sitting with a gun to her head and a hundred pounds of C4 wired to the house.  He just wanted the money to go to his starving family in Peru, stand-up guy, for sure.  He wanted me to come to the house so he could shoot me in the head in front of his Internet camera.  My mother begged for me to hurry.  She wanted to watch the Mother’s Day parade—which didn’t exist—and go out for horse ride—which there were no horses—and wanted me to bring her some ice cream.

Mom was nuts.  By then she was 89 years old and because the old man had left her a tidy sum and the best lawyer around it was impossible to commit her.  And, she was healthy as a mule except in her mind.  She’s set the house on fire a dozen times, wrecked another dozen cars and made thousands of police reports for her hallucinations.  I hadn’t been home since I ran off with the Marines, but I’d hired a private eye to keep an eye on her.  He made sure the lawn got mowed, stuff got fixed that was broken and whatever else needed to be done.  He sent the bills to the lawyer who handled the money and the bills—and he wasn’t letting go of that golden goose.  It was an excellent system.

Now, I have to admit I was seriously considering just letting nature run its course for dear old moms.  She’d had a good run and now it was time to be blown up into the sunset and find her natural home inside the gates of Hell or wherever they put insane people after they die.  I mean, I am a young man with most of my life still in front of me. Why should I die for that old bitty?  My bosses agreed.  They had a drone with a Hellfire missile at the ready.  She wouldn’t feel a thing.  Nope, I said, I just couldn’t do it.  Besides, I said, I’d found a better way.

Two can play this game.

The TV news crews were just close enough where they could catch the scene with their long lens, but not close enough for their microphones to hear a thing.  I had turned myself into the FBI and was immediately sprung by the Attorney General under orders of the President and the whole thing was black filed and burned.  A few hours later I was in the communications trailer a block from my mom’s house and my plan was unfolding.  A guy, who looked somewhat like the guy in the blurry photo but who had a fistful of legitimate looking ID, slowly approached the front door.  He was wearing a bullet proof vest and a headset.  We had just connected him to the Peruvian inside.

Peruvian:    Hold your hands above your head and slowly walk into the house and close the door.

And that is what he did.  Once inside the Peruvian took him into the den where my mother was tied up and gagged.  We knew this because our guy was wired nine ways to Hell and back, and we were tuned into the broadcasting Internet channel.  Calvin J. Coolidge had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had like four months to live, but you couldn’t tell it from looking at him.  He looked fine.  His wife and five kids didn’t know he was doing this.  They didn’t know they were about to win twenty million dollars through the Publishers Clearinghouse contest they didn’t enter either.  They thought daddy had gone fishing, and would be told he drowned and his body wasn’t recovered.

The Peruvian guy pointed the 38 caliber snub nose, with only a two inch barrel, at our guy and his hand was shaking noticeably.  Shit, we thought, he’s going to fuck this whole thing up.  And he did.  He blew our guy’s left ear off with the first shot and then missed with the next four and has to reload—which he managed to fuck up completely.  Finally, he retrieved what looked like his last three bullets from the floor, and got them into the chamber and snapped it shut.  Walk right up to him, whispers my boss.  Don’t blow it this time.  And like magic that is exactly what that Peruvian did.  And when he pulled the trigger the gun exploded in his hand.  This is not what we wanted to happen.  Enough shrapnel hit our guy in the face to permanently maim him, but not quite kill him and he began screaming like a little girl.  The Peruvian’s stump was squirting blood like a fountain and he too was screaming like a little girl.  Everything was coming apart at the seams.  The boss was getting antsy and was hovering over my shoulder.  “We can’t wait any longer”, declared the boss.  “Do it now!”

I pushed the button.  The receiver in our guy’s belt snapped to life and ignited the miniature electro-chemical device in the buckle which three seconds later emitted a short burst sufficient to detonate the C4.  Basically, the house and mom were vaporized in like a milo-second.  She hadn’t felt a thing, at least, that is what science tells us.

Anyway, the next day we caught the assholes with the syringe.  They were bottom feeding canon-fodder who stumbled on the syringe and went rogue thinking they could get rich quick and retire on some beach or something.  Our computers caught them talking and bing, bang, boom they asses went down and hard, but it wasn’t me who whacked them.  Nope.  The Internet had my picture and the growing legends of my supposed exploits made me a serious liability.  They missed me by less than 30 seconds, but my booby traps got three of them.   Fuck it, I thought.  You got to earn this.

Just for the fuck of it, I killed the greedy lawyer.  I mean, shit.  I’m going to Hell anyways.  Why not enjoy the ride at least?  One day, maybe some asshole is going to catch up with me and put out my lights.  I know this.  Maybe.  But, if that does happen the cool thing is no one is going to fuck around.  They are just going to put two in my skull.  No fuss, no muss.  I hope they shoot me in the face, at least.  I want to smile for them.

The twenty million intended for our guy’s family never made it.  I stole it all.  It was my get away money.  To be perfectly honest, the American government quit looking for me a while ago.  And, as it turns out, the Peruvian guy’s family never got their money either.  And, the terrorists eventually got tired of trying to track me down, too.  I guess we were letting bygones be bygones.  No harm, no foul.

And basically that is the way the story ends.  I had vaporized my own mother with C4 because she was such a looney, and had just generally been a serial killer for the United States government.  And, I got away with millions in ill-gotten booty.  Oh, and I also got away with thirteen heart juice syringes.  But, that’s another story.

Another Story

 

Remember me, Pac Man from the mom story?  Well, I’m back.  I finally got around to doing something with those thirteen heart juice syringes.  I thought you might want to hear about it.  I’m in my late thirties now, but I keep myself in good shape and more importantly, in good practice.  I’ve been living this whole time in the good old US of A, and it hasn’t been all that difficult.  I grew long hair and a beard and never stay put too long.  I’m like an eternal tourist.

Even so, I became restless.  And, there were those syringes to think about.  I had to ask myself: were there thirteen people who I thought deserved to die?

But of course.

My most natural enemy at the time was still the guy who ordered my assassination.  He was just following orders, and I had done the same thing numerous times, but then again, it’s not like I ever really had any moral standards.  What the Hell, I thought.  Boss man is going down.

Boss man loved to golf, but he was so busy with his job that he could only golf at odd times and finding anyone to play with was almost impossible.  I know this because he rarely golfed with same group twice.  I also knew Boss man was a terrible golfer, but a persistent ball hunter—an acquired skill for sure.  And that is exactly how I got him.  I lay in the weeds in the spot where he usually lost a ball every time he golfed this one course, and after a few weeks he stumbled into my trap.  I injected him in his anus where no coroner would find a track and left him lying with his nine iron on the thirteenth hole on Friday, June thirteenth in 2013 at almost exactly thirteen hundred hours.

Of course, there was plenty of suspicion surrounding Boss man’s death.  The irony of all the 13’s was not completely lost on everyone.  Plus, although Boss man was sixty-three years old, he was in excellent shape and had just passed a stress test with flying colors.  His heart had just stopped and the doctors did not know why, and they never found the needle track in Boss man’s anus, and of course no trace of the drug could be found.   It was what it was.

I watched the funeral from the top of a tall building nearby and had pre-planned for a perfectly clear view of the plot.  I was using a pair of Leica Geovid 8×42 HD-B Laser Rangefinder Binoculars.  They had a range of 2,000 yards, but I only needed half of that.  Sure enough the Nerd was in the audience.  This was the R&D guy who invented the heart attack juice.  He was close to the Boss man and I figured he might show.  He was the only suit in a bow tie.  Scarlet and gray bow tie.  Nerd guy was an Ohio State grad, and one of the most evil people on Earth.  He invented some terribly nasty shit in his day, and made millions in the process.  His ugly, nerdy looking wife stood next to him.  It was tempting.

Nerd boy was easy to track and stalk.  I had his unbreakable routine down in a week and could go at any time.  This was going to be fun.  Nerd boy was in his early fifties, but was your typical frail, weak, brain-based human.  He wore thick glasses and hearing aids in both ears.  He drove a Volvo and not very well.  Most of the time his wife took him to work, which was a lab outside of Columbus in some faceless industrial park with tight security, and where he would stay usually ten to twelve hours.  Nerd boy and his wife were surprisingly social.  They hooked up with other nerd couples and drank wine and held book clubs and ran social commentary discussions at a coffee house downtown.  So, the only time to get to Nerd boy was after work.  On the weekend would be best, at the coffee club meeting.  He always had to use the bathroom during those, and he always took a dump.  Perfect.

I had determined the best angle of attack would be to come at Nerd boy over the top of the stall wall, clout him in the head, stick him in the anus, and leave him so it looked like he sat to shit, had a heart attack then fell forward and banged his head on the hard ceramic floor.   And that is exactly what happened.  I had foiled all the security cameras before entering the joint and was vaguely disguised as some sort of liberal college professor.  I was out of there before anyone found the body, and was across the street in my rental car before the ambulance arrived.  When they left, they were not in a hurry.

Nerd boy’s death really must have raised suspicions, but once again I hadn’t left a trace and it ended up another head scratcher for the enforcement of law agencies.  I had eleven syringes left, enough to take out the entire starting offense of the Dallas Cowboys if I wanted.  America’s team!  Fuck them guys.  But, that would just be silly.  I went to Nerd boy’s funeral hoping to discover another target, but came away empty.  Nobody but other nerds showed up, and I had gotten my fill of killing those dudes.  The eleven syringes were burning a hole in my pocket.  I had to do something.

The following is the list of names of people I thought about syringing before I settled on my next target: Glenn Beck, Justin Bieber, Stephen A. Smith, Urban Meyer, Bill O’Reilly, Jarrod from Subway, Tim Tebow, Dave Brandon, Jim Leyland, Alf, Lady Gaga, Rich Rodriquez, Nick Saban, Pete Carrol, Abba, Jeff Stewart, Bernie Madoff, Joan Rivers, Jay Leno, Sally Jesse Rafeal, Dick Vitale, Michael Wilbon, Pat Summit, Michael Jackson, Jordan and Douglas, R. Kelly, every cast member ever of every season of any Housewives Of reality show, the Kardashians, Skylar White, Merle, the Iron Chef, Connie Chung, Ted Nugent, Dr. Phil, Oprah, Terrel Owens, Patrick Roh, Tony George, Danica Patrick, Gene Simmons and William Shatner.

But, like the crazy man that I am, I decided to go after the guy who failed to deliver the money to that Peruvian’s family.  That bit of intel cost me a pretty penny, but it was worth it.  Dude was living in Miami and enjoying the highlife.  Supposedly, he was some untouchable Saudi type with diplomatic immunity and long political reach.  He drove a Ferrari and owned five night clubs on South Beach, and got more ass than a toilet seat at Walmart.  He also had five very vicious looking bodyguards who carried large pistols and extra ammo clips.  Miami PD had arrested him a dozen times for a variety of charges, but billionaire diplomats from Saudi Arabia never go to jail.  This dude was going to be hard to hit.  Killing this dude would piss a lot of people off.  I had to do it right.

I used a tactical bank shot.  First, with a Remington 700 I put a match grade round into his left calf right below the knee cap just as he was leaving Pussy Glades on the waterfront.  I knew he would immediately be rushed to Miami St. Vincent’s hospital two blocks away.  I was walking around in the ER wearing scrubs and a surgical mask and had spilled a little synthetic blood on my shoulder.  No one took notice of me at all.  When they rolled Haji in he was bleeding like a pig and screaming like a little girl and some stern intern was assigned to the case and had him wheeled into examination room four.  The bodyguards were made to stay on the other side of the curtains.  The first doctor saw that the wound wasn’t all that serious.  The slug had missed the bone and any important cartilage, it was just bloody.  He ordered x-rays and quickly scurried off to another patient leaving a single nurse alone with Haji.  That’s when I slipped in and told the nurse she was needed elsewhere.  I stuck the needle in the bullet wound where it couldn’t be detected, and told Haji to relax.  I was in the parking lot when his heart took its last beat.

Of course, there was no way I could escape the video surveillance.  I knew that going in, and didn’t care.  The NSA would run an analysis on my facial geometry and boom, the cat would be out of the bag.  I FedEx’d them the syringe the next day.  I knew that would piss them off.  I amscrayed the fuck out of there immediately and didn’t stop until I reached Oregon.  It’s impossible to find anything there.

Except, I found Raquel, and it took more than a minute to get her out of my system.  She was blond and hot and sexy and poor and a pole dancer but she didn’t have any kids and the law was after her for check fraud.  We ended up in a cabin in the mountains with all the comforts of home and stayed there for a month.  We made the most wildest and most passionate love I never thought possible, and ambled across the countryside like free spirits in a perpetual daze.  One day Raquel told me she loved me and the next day she had a heart attack.  I wrapped her in a rope rug and threw her in a bear cave the next day.  I was in Texas two days later.

Texas cops are assholes as it turns out.  I got pulled over for slightly speeding and because I had Kentucky plates this asshole was going to stick it to me good.  Yes, the car was stolen and yes after such a long drive I was not in a good mood, so this Ranger guy has a heart attack driving off a bridge and into a fifty foot ravine and catching fire.  And so it goes.

With eight syringes left, I decided to take a break for a while.  For one thing, I wanted to make them count.  For another, I just needed some R & R.  What better place to go than Vegas—the surveillance camera capitol of the world?  I bought a Porshe in Atlanta and headed west.  I picked up a sweet looking little Asian hooker on the strip and had her made-over to look like some kind of professional assistant.  A few hours later she had me checked in at the Belagio and I had snuck into my room via the service elevator.  I didn’t leave for a month.

I called her Linda Lui and she was a sharp one.  She got me hookers and coke and placed my bets for me and made sure food arrived hot and on time.  After the second day she came to me with a problem.  Her pimp was threatening her because she hadn’t brought him any money in a couple days and he wanted his.  I handed her twenty thousand in cash and one of the syringes, and told her where to stick him.  She came back a few hours later and had done exactly what I had told her.  She had walked right in to the pimp’s crib, handed him the money (and he was elated exactly as planned) and commenced to giving him a blowjob.  But, a second before the magic moment occurred she rammed that needle up his ass and pumped him full of heart attack juice.  Turns out Linda Lui hit the daily double.  Pimp boy had left his wall safe door open when she first latched onto his cock, and that is the way it was when he blew his final breath.  She brought everything back in a large suitcase.  There was 178 thousand dollars in cash not including what I had given her, probably another 100 thousand in gold and jewels, and several handguns which were relatively useless because they were gold or silver plated with custom engraving.  Michael Weston would puke, and so did I.  Linda was ecstatic, especially because I let her keep the 20K along with everything else she brought back.

I had actually come to Vegas for to bet on March Madness games, and when that was over it was time to split.  I had won more than I lost and the hookers and coke rejuvenated me.  The very last night was the first time I slept with Linda Lui, and she was something else.  I gave her a ten grand bonus in the morning and told her that someday I’d be back.  She just smiled, took the money, and said, “Me so horny!”  It was our private joke.

The Saudi’s had hired hundreds of American private investigators, mostly former FBI agents, to find out who killed Haji.  One thing led to another and after millions of dollars had changed hands; my name was entered into their equation.  Yes, this is only a guess on my part, but that is the same way every operation goes so this one couldn’t be any different.  The first question is how much money do you want to spend?  This is why the NSA wasn’t really searching very hard for me.  I was small potatoes.  But, to those Saudi’s I became worth one hundred million dollars—chump change to them.  It was an open contract and you couldn’t just blow me up on TV again.  They literally wanted my head.  I know all this because it is on a Syrian web site for the entire world to see.  My last known location was Miami.  They had the blurry picture from years ago, and another blurry picture from the hospital camera where you could only see my eyes—and that was at a bad angle.  My listed traits were: titty bars, drinking, shooting guns, rape, murder, atheist, spy, assassin, Jew.  That was it. That was my entire profile on this web site.  I felt insulted.

I am not a Jew.  I am sure they just threw that in for effect.

The NSA loved this.  It made their work so much easier and provided ample opportunity for growth and promotion.  In situations like this the rule book, which was never followed anyway, was really never followed.  They literally have thousands of operatives just dying for something like this to happen because for sure gun play was going to be involved and there is nothing like gun play with the home field advantage.  On top of all that, if all this shit leaked out to the press the populace would be freaking out so the idiot politicians were throwing barrels of money at any department or agency that battled terrorism and international crime.  Not on my watch!

Another funny thing about the NSA is that they manage such a great network of computers that security is very difficult, especially when it’s an insider or former insider doing the penetrating—which was in fact me.  I couldn’t get at everything, but I could get at enough to be ahead of the game.  I tracked air travel patterns for instance and know where the concentrations of operatives were, and avoid those places when I wanted.  I knew when satellites were overhead.  And I knew a lot of other stuff but you don’t need to know about it.  The point is I was able to stay ahead of things and confound efforts to capture me again and again.

And then I struck back.  Four different “private investigators” were found dead of heart attacks in four different cities on four different days, in four different hotel rooms.  It was my masterpiece.  I did everyone the same way.  Showed up in a maître’d’s uniform at the room door with a silver tray in my hand and said, “Compliments of the house,” then I tazed them.  When they got done being all wiggly and stuff, I’d pop them in the neck with the heart attack juice and leave the syringe in their dead hand.  I was trying to be ironic.

I dropped off the face of the Earth for a while after that.  I needed to commune with nature so I took off on foot into the Rockies with my survival gear and a sniper rifle.  I didn’t come down until the end of summer.  Maybe I’ll live long enough to tell that story.

The first thing I did was wire in and check for news.  The Saudi’s had been talked into withdrawing the contract and all the operatives had fled and things were pretty much back to normal.  It was time to stir the pot.

I had three syringes left now and for some reason I was becoming obsessed with getting rid of them.  It’s all I thought about. I couldn’t waste them.  They had to have a reason.  What reason, I did not know.  I just know they had to have one.  So I paid cash for a Chevy pickup truck and drove to Bangor, Maine, I have no idea why.  When I got there I realized I didn’t want to be there and turned around.  I pulled into a truck stop a few miles down the road and that is when I saw that greasy truck driver grab that little girl by the hair and throw her into the cab of her truck and drive off.  I followed that asshole until he pulled off into one of those roadside rest stop things and parked in the back.  When he didn’t get out right away I had a pretty good idea of what was going on.  I slipped out of my truck and in a few seconds was under his.  I pinched off the fuel line with my fingers and in a few more seconds the engine started sputtering and died.  Truck driver climbed out of the cab a minute or so later and when his feet hit the ground he felt a sharp jab in his asshole (through his pants) and clutched his chest.  His face landed staring right into my eyes.  As his last few seconds of life echoed away I whispered to him, “I found the problem with your truck.”

I left like a ghost and drove back to the truck stop for a hearty meal.  Some woman was running around looking for her daughter.  She’d find her soon enough, and only slightly hysterical.  I ordered a round for the bar after she left with the policeman.  “To the little girl” I cheered!  Not fifteen minutes later someone reported finding the girl and I ordered up another round.  “To America,” I cheered, and then broke out with America the Beautiful.  The crowd loved it and sang along proudly. I kept ordering rounds and we kept singing and by the time I made it back to my truck I was clearly too drunk to drive. That’s when Darla came to my rescue.  She dragged me back inside and threw me on a cot in the kitchen and locked me in.

And that is where I woke up the next morning, only now there was a rather large pistol barrel pressing firmly into my temple.  It was Darla and she was pissed.  Besides being a cracker jack short order cook and the proud owner of numerous pistol shooting trophies, Darla was also the wife of that trucker I dismissed and the grandmother of that little girl—who Darla informed me had stolen twenty dollars out of the till last night. (She told me all this.)  Darla had two syringes in her hand and a very quizzical expression on her face. She said, “You got something you want to tell me?”

At that second, I did not.  I was still woozy from the booze and that old cot had given me a seriously crinked neck.  I just wanted some coffee.  But, before you read on I want you to stop for a second and consider just what you would tell Darla to save your ass.  Write down your ideas.

So, here I am about to be whacked by a hillbilly woman with a .44.  Who would have thought that?  With her free hand Darla handed me a cup of coffee.  “Maybe this will help you think.”

It did.  No, I did not try to throw the scalding hot coffee in Darla’s face, she was too close and I was lying down.  Dumb idea.  I took a sip of the coffee eyeing Darla steadily the whole time.  “I’ve got something to tell you,” I began, “But you got to promise me first you won’t tell anybody.”

“I got the gun,” explained Darla evenly.  “I don’t got to promise nothing.”

“Fair enough,” I replied.  “I got those syringes off the guy who killed your husband.”

“Bullshit,” declared Darla!

“Have you searched my pockets yet, Darla?”

“No,” she replied.

“So, you didn’t find my identification?”

“No,” she replied.

“Darla, I’m a deep cover DEA agent.  The ID in my breast pocket will prove it.  The guy who killed your husband was trying to get away from me.  He’s a major pharmaceutical supplier.  We’ve been chasing him for months.”

“Why don’t you have a gun?” asked Darla.  I could tell she was taking the hook.  Women love intrigue.

“It’s in my truck.  I don’t carry my gun into bars when I plan on drinking too much.  Look Darla, that drug dealer’s money paid for everyone’s drinks last night.  Do you know how many people have overdosed on this guy’s poison?”

“No, I do not.  Where is this drug dealer now?” asked Darla suspiciously. “The police didn’t say nothing about any of this.”

“On a jet back to Russia,” I replied so matter-of-factly she bought it hook, line and sinker.  “With a broken collarbone, nose and jawbone.  He’ll be rotting in a Soviet prison for the rest of his life, Darla.  That’s the best justice I can offer you.”

Darla was simmering on all this.  I could tell she believed me, she just wasn’t sure what to do next, so I helped her along.  “Darla, those syringes contain a very dangerous virus.  It’s important they go back into their carrying case like right now.  Is that okay?”

Quite gingerly, Darla set the .44 on a nearby shelf then handed the syringes over.  I asked for some more coffee and when she stood up I nailed her in the ass with the second to last syringe.  Down goes Darla.

So this syringe thing has turned out to be a fucking Crusade of rectal expository and now there is only one left and I have become absolutely obsessed with making it count.  It was the biggest pain in the ass yet to come and I ignored the omens and the portents and just said fuck it.  But, the story of the final syringe, that one is a story on its own.

 

A Story on Its Own

 

This is the Pac Man back with the third leg of this little trilogy.  This is supposed to be the climatic ending.  I hope it turns out that way.  If you are reading this story out of order stop now and go read “Mom”.  Otherwise, be advised that Darla got the second to the last syringe and there is only one left to go, one final syringe of heart attack juice.  And, I have it and it is driving me absolutely nuts by this point.  And no, I am not going to use it on myself as some of you asshole readers might have expected.  That is the coward’s way out.

I sat on the edge of the Grand Canyon for six hours drinking Jack Daniels and didn’t come up with a target and didn’t fall off.  My next bright idea was to commune with some outlaw Indians I knew on a nearby reservation.  We smoked peyote and drank moonshine and fired guns and laughed a bunch, but that brought me no closer to my next target.  Around the campfire at night I would tell the Indians real stories about what I did for a living.  They were very impressed and always wanted more stories.  When I decided to move on they were sad.  They wanted even more stories.  But by now that last syringe was burning a hole in my brain.  I continued on my journey.

I called Linda Lui from the last story.  She had turned herself into a successful promoter and was making money hand over foot.  She had a mansion on the edge of the desert and there I stayed for thirty days.  I got up every morning and watched the sunrise hoping for inspiration, but alas nothing came.  Finally, Linda got sick and tired of my whining and carrying on and threatened to throw me out if I didn’t shut the fuck up about that damn syringe.  In fact, she took that syringe and the titanium cigar case it came in and locked them in her floor save beneath the fireplace.  I lasted six days.  She packed me into her Cadillac and told me to step off.  Now that hurt.

I don’t even remember where I drove from there.  I just drove until I needed gas or sleep, and then started driving again.  I didn’t use a map or GPS.  I just turned when I felt like it and kept going when so inclined.  I ended up at some rather strange places where people looked at me like Eurotrash or something.  But, I didn’t care.  I was on a mission to where I do not know to find a target equally as nebulous.  I ran Linda’s Caddy into about a hundred traffic barrels outside of Chicago and left it in a rest area smoldering. A couple of cougars saw me park the spent Caddy and offered me a ride into town.  It took a couple weeks for me to get back on track.

So there I am sailing down I-94 eastbound in this Jag I stole from cougar number two and it comes to me where to go next.  Niagara Falls.  It might have been the roadside sign speaking to me and the Jack in the passenger seat didn’t help, but Niagara Falls here I came.  When I arrived all I knew I had to dump the Jag and was overcome with youthful stupidity.  I decided to send it over the falls, at night, with a dummy inside.  Long story short it took a while to find the proper launching site.  For three days I threw big-ass logs into the river just to see where they went.  The last thing I did was inflate an automatic inflatable life raft in the rear compartment of that Jag, drop a brick on the gas, slam the door, and watch it dive into the water.  The hardest thing was getting back to the falls before the Jag.  I did that on a sport bike.  I don’t have a bucket list, but if I did, this would go on it retroactively.  Anyway, the tourists got quite a show that night.

I had tried everything.  I had tried Intel, newspapers, the Internets, TV, radio, Satellite radio, spiritual stuff, logical stuff, scientific stuff and all for naught.  I still had no one good to stick with that last fucking syringe.  I mean, I had a zillion targets, but just not one single worthy target—whatever the Hell that was at the time.  I made another list: Chastity Bono, Cher, Boris Badinoff, John McEnroe, That to catch a predator guy (what an exploitative asshole!), Clay, Peter Campbell, the Car Fax fox, 99% of all female comedians, Vegans, Oliver Stone,  Ted Danson, Janet Jackson, The ShamWow guy, Glee and so on and so forth, but none those names moved the needle, so to speak.

Right about then I made a horrible mistake.  So caught up in my little artificial dilemma was I, I didn’t notice much about what was around me for a bit too long.  I was in a rented Cadillac under an assumed name, just like Linda’s.  It seemed like thirty seconds into downtown Cleveland all Hell broke loose.  I used every gun and every bullet in the car practically.  That is about all I can tell you about that.  It was hairy and I barely unfucked myself.  More than one person died teaching me that lesson.  More like about nine.

So, now I am in Kentucky skirting small towns in a stolen Mini-Van full of car seats and baby puke.  It was the third one I had stolen in the last two hours and it was by far the worst smelly.  I rolled that skunk into a busy intersection when I was done with it so it would get smashed up real good—and it did.  Somebody had to have got killed in that wreck, but I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.  This time I grabbed a Saab.  It rocked.

So, I Googled the most hated person on Earth and Google came up with Justin Bieber and a bunch of people who were already dead and Charles Manson and Bush.  No, no, no, and fuck no. I voted for both.  And here I am on page three of this story and still no target is in sight.  The reader is probably getting bored by now.  Fuck you reader.  Have some faith.

After the aforementioned scare, my butt stayed on constant alert.  I didn’t sleep for three days and changed cars twenty times.  I found myself in LA driving a Harley Davidson Fatboy down Rodeo Drive.  I need to say this.  If murder is ever legalized, I am going straight to Rodeo Drive with an assault weapon and extra clips.  But that day I was still on my syringe quest and still without a target and that is exactly when Paris Hilton pranced out in front of the Harley.  I didn’t hit her hard, but she landed on her head and was real woozy.  There were far too many witnesses, so I just jacked her onto the back of my bike and lit out of there in a hail of smoke and exhaust.  I was into Hollywood Hills before Paris told me she didn’t remember my name and she had to pee.  We just happened to be near a small patch of woods so I stopped.  Oh my God, I thought, this is perfect.  Everybody hates Paris Hilton.  I quickly dug through my duffel bag and found the syringe, and then trotted off into the woods after that Hilton bitch.  As luck would have it she was lying on the ground, her panties and mini-shorts around her ankles, a dull stare in her eyes and bugs crawling all over her.  Shit!  She was already dead!

I left her where she fell.  Turns out it wasn’t really Paris Hilton, but a Paris Hilton look-alike trying to promote her act.  I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.  Since I was still stuck with the syringe, I was sad.

I had intentionally provided for thousands of opportunities for something completely unexpected to happen, and it had not.  No matter what I did or tried to do, my brain just would not lock onto a viable target when I was sober.  I called in a radio talk show one morning and asked the talk show guy what I could do.  He laughed thinking it was a joke and then told me to inject his ex-wife.  He’ll never knew how close I came to doing exactly that.  Instead, I shot her in the face seven times, at close range, with hollow point bullets.  I sent the talk show guy a bill.  I thought that was ironic.

One night in Memphis I got drunk and took a hooker back to my room.  We had a great time right up until her pimp busted into the room and tried robbing me.  I acted all scared and stuff and when he dropped his guard I snapped his neck.  Then I snapped the hooker’s neck.  Just to be cute I left a scribbled suicide note.  I bet that gave the cops fits.  Just for the Hell of it I went and shot the talk show guy in the face seven times with hollow point bullets and left another suicide note.  This was getting good to me and I did it several more times before it played out—and I still had that stupid fucking syringe to use.

I walked into a hospital in Atlanta one day with the intention of putting some poor, suffering soul out of their misery, but ended up shooting a doctor, a nurse and a janitor.  I took that as a bad omen and got out of Dodge.  I went to a Hospice, but it just made me feel sick and I left holding my mouth.  So, now I knew there was no Good Samaritan way to dispense with that syringe.  I went back to exploring evil ways.

When I was first recruited by the NSA they called themselves the NSD.  The guy who recruited me was this pale-faced spook of many decades.  I think he started in the Civil War or something.  His job wasn’t that hard.  Shrink tests had sorted out the likely candidates well in advance. (I found all this out later.)  This guy was just pushing the paper and handed out orders.  They trained me for a year and then let me loose on society with two standing orders: 1. Complete the mission.  2. Never get caught.  And that is exactly what I did.  Most of the time I just planted or removed bugs, tailed people or conducted surveillance, but once in a while the work got a bit wetter.  I would never brag about that stuff, but I was damn good.

The first time they send you to kill one of your own it is really a buzz.  It’s best if you can do it fast because the more you have to think about it the harder it becomes.  And, if you think too long, you could go off the reservation, and then someone comes looking for your ass.  Mine was easy.  It was a girl.  The dumb bitch got false flagged by some French guy and then lied about it, so she died in Findley, Ohio.  A car ran over her face.  She probably didn’t feel a thing.

The second was harder, and I can’t talk about that one.

All this reminiscing made me stop and think and that is exactly when I came up with my idea.  Suddenly I realized that I could make that single syringe kill as many people as I wanted and most likely exactly the people I wanted.  So that is exactly what I proceeded doing.  A few seconds later I was driving to Hell, Michigan and only made one stop along the way.

Hell Michigan is a small town in Southern Michigan near a bunch of lakes.  On Highland Court, at the end of the street sits a house an old friend of mine used to live in but has since been lost to the banks and now sits abandoned.  It is surrounded by lowlands actually, and swamp and critters and bugs and snakes and has been known to flood every other year.  At this time you could barely even see the small cottage because of all the growth around it.  My old friend, who I had been inducted into the Marines with, had described it perfectly and as I stood there gazing at it I could only imagine what it had once been.  The nearest house was a hundred yards away and abandoned, too.  This was going to be easy.

The note I sent, written on the back of the MapQuest map I sent to the NSA, said the following:  The last syringe is here.

I was camouflaged to the bone, three hundred yards due south, and a hundred foot up in an oak tree when I spotted the first operative creeping in the high grass toward the cottage.  And then I saw another directly below me and I prayed he didn’t decide to climb my tree to provide over-watch, and he didn’t.  He got greedy and moved a few trees closer.  A few seconds later I could see operatives sneaking in from all directions, each of them armed to the teeth and each as stealthy as cougars.  When they were all in position, I heard a helicopter approaching from the east and could see that Patterson Lake road had been shut down completely.  There were black Suburbans everywhere, but that was it.  When the helicopter was overhead, the operators struck from all directions with flash-bang grenades threw the windows and buckshot to the door locks.  That is when they must have noticed the syringe hanging from a dozen Claymore land mines duct taped to the ceiling fan.  A sign hung from a string below the syringe.  It read: don’t move.

I was watching and listening.  I let the tension rise and listened to frantic conversations about what to do between the operators and their handlers.  Motion sensor bombs are like impossible to defeat.  All they could do was stand there and sweat.  Finally, I keyed my little mic and said: Take off all your clothes.  I was broadcasting via a tired old, dusty ghetto-blaster strategically located in a dark corner.  After a little prodding I had twelve naked operators sweating their balls off in this oven of a cottage on a hot summer afternoon and was loving it.  Now came the kicker.  This is what I said:  If one of you takes that syringe and injects yourself, all the others will live.  You have five minutes to decide.

Of course by now they know I am somewhere in the vicinity and everyone not in the cottage takes off looking.  They ran into all kinds of snares and booby traps meant to cause debilitating injuries but not death.  I could hear a lot of yelling and screaming from my perch up in that Oak.  My mic actually went to a repeater in another tree five hundred yards north of me, but I hadn’t really transmitted long enough for them to triangulate.  I turned the mic off just to be sure.

Back inside the cottage the operatives were having a come to Jesus talk.  They knew I was skilled enough to rig that bomb exactly as it looked.  There was no way out but through some serious altruism and my good graces.  Finally, this bald guy volunteers to take the syringe, and he closes his eyes and stabs himself in the belly, of all places, with that syringe and pumped fifty cc’s of my urine into his intestines.  I have to tell you, it was the funniest thing I ever seen.  He was so dramatic and shit about it. He stood there crying but with a stout chin waiting for death to come.  He even placed his hand over his chest.  Finally he asks, “How long does it take this stuff to work?”

“You should be dead by now,” someone replied.

“Maybe you should lie down,” offered someone else.

Then the guy with the syringe gets around to looking up at the Claymore and realizes something is wrong.  “Front Toward Enema” is in big letters on every last one of them.  “Hey,” he says, “what the fuck?”

I repelled down the tree and hightailed it out of the vicinity immediately after that.  Some NSA guy found everything but not before I had an hour of video and audio which I of course posted up on YouTube, but hardly anyone gets to see it because the NSA hacks it almost as soon as it goes up.  Bastards.

I know you thought I was going to go out in a blaze of explosions, gunfire and glory and I am sorry if this disappoints you, but that’s the breaks.  I squirted that last shot of heart attack juice into a possum that scared the shit out of me when I was in the cottage setting up my elaborate trap.  I couldn’t shoot the little prick.  I was afraid someone might hear the shot.  I Fed Ex’d the carcass to the NSA.  For some reason that stupid possum gave me a change of heart and I decided to spare, for the most part, the NSA guys.  Go figure.

 

Another Story

 

Remember me, Pac Man from the mom story?  Well, I’m back.  I finally got around to doing something with those thirteen heart juice syringes.  I thought you might want to hear about it.  I’m in my late thirties now, but I keep myself in good shape and more importantly, in good practice.  I’ve been living this whole time in the good old US of A, and it hasn’t been all that difficult.  I grew long hair and a beard and never stay put too long.  I’m like an eternal tourist.

Even so, I became restless.  And, there were those syringes to think about.  I had to ask myself: were there thirteen people who I thought deserved to die?

But of course.

My most natural enemy at the time was still the guy who ordered my assassination.  He was just following orders, and I had done the same thing numerous times, but then again, it’s not like I ever really had any moral standards.  What the Hell, I thought.  Boss man is going down.

Boss man loved to golf, but he was so busy with his job that he could only golf at odd times and finding anyone to play with was almost impossible.  I know this because he rarely golfed with same group twice.  I also knew Boss man was a terrible golfer, but a persistent ball hunter—an acquired skill for sure.  And that is exactly how I got him.  I lay in the weeds in the spot where he usually lost a ball every time he golfed this one course, and after a few weeks he stumbled into my trap.  I injected him in his anus where no coroner would find a track and left him lying with his nine iron on the thirteenth hole on Friday, June thirteenth in 2013 at almost exactly thirteen hundred hours.

Of course, there was plenty of suspicion surrounding Boss man’s death.  The irony of all the 13’s was not completely lost on everyone.  Plus, although Boss man was sixty-three years old, he was in excellent shape and had just passed a stress test with flying colors.  His heart had just stopped and the doctors did not know why, and they never found the needle track in Boss man’s anus, and of course no trace of the drug could be found.   It was what it was.

I watched the funeral from the top of a tall building nearby and had pre-planned for a perfectly clear view of the plot.  I was using a pair of Leica Geovid 8×42 HD-B Laser Rangefinder Binoculars.  They had a range of 2,000 yards, but I only needed half of that.  Sure enough the Nerd was in the audience.  This was the R&D guy who invented the heart attack juice.  He was close to the Boss man and I figured he might show.  He was the only suit in a bow tie.  Scarlet and gray bow tie.  Nerd guy was an Ohio State grad, and one of the most evil people on Earth.  He invented some terribly nasty shit in his day, and made millions in the process.  His ugly, nerdy looking wife stood next to him.  It was tempting.

Nerd boy was easy to track and stalk.  I had his unbreakable routine down in a week and could go at any time.  This was going to be fun.  Nerd boy was in his early fifties, but was your typical frail, weak, brain-based human.  He wore thick glasses and hearing aids in both ears.  He drove a Volvo and not very well.  Most of the time his wife took him to work, which was a lab outside of Columbus in some faceless industrial park with tight security, and where he would stay usually ten to twelve hours.  Nerd boy and his wife were surprisingly social.  They hooked up with other nerd couples and drank wine and held book clubs and ran social commentary discussions at a coffee house downtown.  So, the only time to get to Nerd boy was after work.  On the weekend would be best, at the coffee club meeting.  He always had to use the bathroom during those, and he always took a dump.  Perfect.

I had determined the best angle of attack would be to come at Nerd boy over the top of the stall wall, clout him in the head, stick him in the anus, and leave him so it looked like he sat to shit, had a heart attack then fell forward and banged his head on the hard ceramic floor.   And that is exactly what happened.  I had foiled all the security cameras before entering the joint and was vaguely disguised as some sort of liberal college professor.  I was out of there before anyone found the body, and was across the street in my rental car before the ambulance arrived.  When they left, they were not in a hurry.

Nerd boy’s death really must have raised suspicions, but once again I hadn’t left a trace and it ended up another head scratcher for the enforcement of law agencies.  I had eleven syringes left, enough to take out the entire starting offense of the Dallas Cowboys if I wanted.  America’s team!  Fuck them guys.  But, that would just be silly.  I went to Nerd boy’s funeral hoping to discover another target, but came away empty.  Nobody but other nerds showed up, and I had gotten my fill of killing those dudes.  The eleven syringes were burning a hole in my pocket.  I had to do something.

The following is the list of names of people I thought about syringing before I settled on my next target: Glenn Beck, Justin Bieber, Stephen A. Smith, Urban Meyer, Bill O’Reilly, Jarrod from Subway, Tim Tebow, Dave Brandon, Jim Leyland, Alf, Lady Gaga, Rich Rodriquez, Nick Saban, Pete Carrol, Abba, Jeff Stewart, Bernie Madoff, Joan Rivers, Jay Leno, Sally Jesse Rafeal, Dick Vitale, Michael Wilbon, Pat Summit, Michael Jackson, Jordan and Douglas, R. Kelly, every cast member ever of every season of any Housewives Of reality show, the Kardashians, Skylar White, Merle, the Iron Chef, Connie Chung, Ted Nugent, Dr. Phil, Oprah, Terrel Owens, Patrick Roh, Tony George, Danica Patrick, Gene Simmons and William Shatner.

But, like the crazy man that I am, I decided to go after the guy who failed to deliver the money to that Peruvian’s family.  That bit of intel cost me a pretty penny, but it was worth it.  Dude was living in Miami and enjoying the highlife.  Supposedly, he was some untouchable Saudi type with diplomatic immunity and long political reach.  He drove a Ferrari and owned five night clubs on South Beach, and got more ass than a toilet seat at Walmart.  He also had five very vicious looking bodyguards who carried large pistols and extra ammo clips.  Miami PD had arrested him a dozen times for a variety of charges, but billionaire diplomats from Saudi Arabia never go to jail.  This dude was going to be hard to hit.  Killing this dude would piss a lot of people off.  I had to do it right.

I used a tactical bank shot.  First, with a Remington 700 I put a match grade round into his left calf right below the knee cap just as he was leaving Pussy Glades on the waterfront.  I knew he would immediately be rushed to Miami St. Vincent’s hospital two blocks away.  I was walking around in the ER wearing scrubs and a surgical mask and had spilled a little synthetic blood on my shoulder.  No one took notice of me at all.  When they rolled Haji in he was bleeding like a pig and screaming like a little girl and some stern intern was assigned to the case and had him wheeled into examination room four.  The bodyguards were made to stay on the other side of the curtains.  The first doctor saw that the wound wasn’t all that serious.  The slug had missed the bone and any important cartilage, it was just bloody.  He ordered x-rays and quickly scurried off to another patient leaving a single nurse alone with Haji.  That’s when I slipped in and told the nurse she was needed elsewhere.  I stuck the needle in the bullet wound where it couldn’t be detected, and told Haji to relax.  I was in the parking lot when his heart took its last beat.

Of course, there was no way I could escape the video surveillance.  I knew that going in, and didn’t care.  The NSA would run an analysis on my facial geometry and boom, the cat would be out of the bag.  I FedEx’d them the syringe the next day.  I knew that would piss them off.  I amscrayed the fuck out of there immediately and didn’t stop until I reached Oregon.  It’s impossible to find anything there.

Except, I found Raquel, and it took more than a minute to get her out of my system.  She was blond and hot and sexy and poor and a pole dancer but she didn’t have any kids and the law was after her for check fraud.  We ended up in a cabin in the mountains with all the comforts of home and stayed there for a month.  We made the most wildest and most passionate love I never thought possible, and ambled across the countryside like free spirits in a perpetual daze.  One day Raquel told me she loved me and the next day she had a heart attack.  I wrapped her in a rope rug and threw her in a bear cave the next day.  I was in Texas two days later.

Texas cops are assholes as it turns out.  I got pulled over for slightly speeding and because I had Kentucky plates this asshole was going to stick it to me good.  Yes, the car was stolen and yes after such a long drive I was not in a good mood, so this Ranger guy has a heart attack driving off a bridge and into a fifty foot ravine and catching fire.  And so it goes.

With eight syringes left, I decided to take a break for a while.  For one thing, I wanted to make them count.  For another, I just needed some R & R.  What better place to go than Vegas—the surveillance camera capitol of the world?  I bought a Porshe in Atlanta and headed west.  I picked up a sweet looking little Asian hooker on the strip and had her made-over to look like some kind of professional assistant.  A few hours later she had me checked in at the Belagio and I had snuck into my room via the service elevator.  I didn’t leave for a month.

I called her Linda Lui and she was a sharp one.  She got me hookers and coke and placed my bets for me and made sure food arrived hot and on time.  After the second day she came to me with a problem.  Her pimp was threatening her because she hadn’t brought him any money in a couple days and he wanted his.  I handed her twenty thousand in cash and one of the syringes, and told her where to stick him.  She came back a few hours later and had done exactly what I had told her.  She had walked right in to the pimp’s crib, handed him the money (and he was elated exactly as planned) and commenced to giving him a blowjob.  But, a second before the magic moment occurred she rammed that needle up his ass and pumped him full of heart attack juice.  Turns out Linda Lui hit the daily double.  Pimp boy had left his wall safe door open when she first latched onto his cock, and that is the way it was when he blew his final breath.  She brought everything back in a large suitcase.  There was 178 thousand dollars in cash not including what I had given her, probably another 100 thousand in gold and jewels, and several handguns which were relatively useless because they were gold or silver plated with custom engraving.  Michael Weston would puke, and so did I.  Linda was ecstatic, especially because I let her keep the 20K along with everything else she brought back.

I had actually come to Vegas for to bet on March Madness games, and when that was over it was time to split.  I had won more than I lost and the hookers and coke rejuvenated me.  The very last night was the first time I slept with Linda Lui, and she was something else.  I gave her a ten grand bonus in the morning and told her that someday I’d be back.  She just smiled, took the money, and said, “Me so horny!”  It was our private joke.

The Saudi’s had hired hundreds of American private investigators, mostly former FBI agents, to find out who killed Haji.  One thing led to another and after millions of dollars had changed hands; my name was entered into their equation.  Yes, this is only a guess on my part, but that is the same way every operation goes so this one couldn’t be any different.  The first question is how much money do you want to spend?  This is why the NSA wasn’t really searching very hard for me.  I was small potatoes.  But, to those Saudi’s I became worth one hundred million dollars—chump change to them.  It was an open contract and you couldn’t just blow me up on TV again.  They literally wanted my head.  I know all this because it is on a Syrian web site for the entire world to see.  My last known location was Miami.  They had the blurry picture from years ago, and another blurry picture from the hospital camera where you could only see my eyes—and that was at a bad angle.  My listed traits were: titty bars, drinking, shooting guns, rape, murder, atheist, spy, assassin, Jew.  That was it. That was my entire profile on this web site.  I felt insulted.

I am not a Jew.  I am sure they just threw that in for effect.

The NSA loved this.  It made their work so much easier and provided ample opportunity for growth and promotion.  In situations like this the rule book, which was never followed anyway, was really never followed.  They literally have thousands of operatives just dying for something like this to happen because for sure gun play was going to be involved and there is nothing like gun play with the home field advantage.  On top of all that, if all this shit leaked out to the press the populace would be freaking out so the idiot politicians were throwing barrels of money at any department or agency that battled terrorism and international crime.  Not on my watch!

Another funny thing about the NSA is that they manage such a great network of computers that security is very difficult, especially when it’s an insider or former insider doing the penetrating—which was in fact me.  I couldn’t get at everything, but I could get at enough to be ahead of the game.  I tracked air travel patterns for instance and know where the concentrations of operatives were, and avoid those places when I wanted.  I knew when satellites were overhead.  And I knew a lot of other stuff but you don’t need to know about it.  The point is I was able to stay ahead of things and confound efforts to capture me again and again.

And then I struck back.  Four different “private investigators” were found dead of heart attacks in four different cities on four different days, in four different hotel rooms.  It was my masterpiece.  I did everyone the same way.  Showed up in a maître’d’s uniform at the room door with a silver tray in my hand and said, “Compliments of the house,” then I tazed them.  When they got done being all wiggly and stuff, I’d pop them in the neck with the heart attack juice and leave the syringe in their dead hand.  I was trying to be ironic.

I dropped off the face of the Earth for a while after that.  I needed to commune with nature so I took off on foot into the Rockies with my survival gear and a sniper rifle.  I didn’t come down until the end of summer.  Maybe I’ll live long enough to tell that story.

The first thing I did was wire in and check for news.  The Saudi’s had been talked into withdrawing the contract and all the operatives had fled and things were pretty much back to normal.  It was time to stir the pot.

I had three syringes left now and for some reason I was becoming obsessed with getting rid of them.  It’s all I thought about. I couldn’t waste them.  They had to have a reason.  What reason, I did not know.  I just know they had to have one.  So I paid cash for a Chevy pickup truck and drove to Bangor, Maine, I have no idea why.  When I got there I realized I didn’t want to be there and turned around.  I pulled into a truck stop a few miles down the road and that is when I saw that greasy truck driver grab that little girl by the hair and throw her into the cab of her truck and drive off.  I followed that asshole until he pulled off into one of those roadside rest stop things and parked in the back.  When he didn’t get out right away I had a pretty good idea of what was going on.  I slipped out of my truck and in a few seconds was under his.  I pinched off the fuel line with my fingers and in a few more seconds the engine started sputtering and died.  Truck driver climbed out of the cab a minute or so later and when his feet hit the ground he felt a sharp jab in his asshole (through his pants) and clutched his chest.  His face landed staring right into my eyes.  As his last few seconds of life echoed away I whispered to him, “I found the problem with your truck.”

I left like a ghost and drove back to the truck stop for a hearty meal.  Some woman was running around looking for her daughter.  She’d find her soon enough, and only slightly hysterical.  I ordered a round for the bar after she left with the policeman.  “To the little girl” I cheered!  Not fifteen minutes later someone reported finding the girl and I ordered up another round.  “To America,” I cheered, and then broke out with America the Beautiful.  The crowd loved it and sang along proudly. I kept ordering rounds and we kept singing and by the time I made it back to my truck I was clearly too drunk to drive. That’s when Darla came to my rescue.  She dragged me back inside and threw me on a cot in the kitchen and locked me in.

And that is where I woke up the next morning, only now there was a rather large pistol barrel pressing firmly into my temple.  It was Darla and she was pissed.  Besides being a cracker jack short order cook and the proud owner of numerous pistol shooting trophies, Darla was also the wife of that trucker I dismissed and the grandmother of that little girl—who Darla informed me had stolen twenty dollars out of the till last night. (She told me all this.)  Darla had two syringes in her hand and a very quizzical expression on her face. She said, “You got something you want to tell me?”

At that second, I did not.  I was still woozy from the booze and that old cot had given me a seriously crinked neck.  I just wanted some coffee.  But, before you read on I want you to stop for a second and consider just what you would tell Darla to save your ass.  Write down your ideas.

So, here I am about to be whacked by a hillbilly woman with a .44.  Who would have thought that?  With her free hand Darla handed me a cup of coffee.  “Maybe this will help you think.”

It did.  No, I did not try to throw the scalding hot coffee in Darla’s face, she was too close and I was lying down.  Dumb idea.  I took a sip of the coffee eyeing Darla steadily the whole time.  “I’ve got something to tell you,” I began, “But you got to promise me first you won’t tell anybody.”

“I got the gun,” explained Darla evenly.  “I don’t got to promise nothing.”

“Fair enough,” I replied.  “I got those syringes off the guy who killed your husband.”

“Bullshit,” declared Darla!

“Have you searched my pockets yet, Darla?”

“No,” she replied.

“So, you didn’t find my identification?”

“No,” she replied.

“Darla, I’m a deep cover DEA agent.  The ID in my breast pocket will prove it.  The guy who killed your husband was trying to get away from me.  He’s a major pharmaceutical supplier.  We’ve been chasing him for months.”

“Why don’t you have a gun?” asked Darla.  I could tell she was taking the hook.  Women love intrigue.

“It’s in my truck.  I don’t carry my gun into bars when I plan on drinking too much.  Look Darla, that drug dealer’s money paid for everyone’s drinks last night.  Do you know how many people have overdosed on this guy’s poison?”

“No, I do not.  Where is this drug dealer now?” asked Darla suspiciously. “The police didn’t say nothing about any of this.”

“On a jet back to Russia,” I replied so matter-of-factly she bought it hook, line and sinker.  “With a broken collarbone, nose and jawbone.  He’ll be rotting in a Soviet prison for the rest of his life, Darla.  That’s the best justice I can offer you.”

Darla was simmering on all this.  I could tell she believed me, she just wasn’t sure what to do next, so I helped her along.  “Darla, those syringes contain a very dangerous virus.  It’s important they go back into their carrying case like right now.  Is that okay?”

Quite gingerly, Darla set the .44 on a nearby shelf then handed the syringes over.  I asked for some more coffee and when she stood up I nailed her in the ass with the second to last syringe.  Down goes Darla.

So this syringe thing has turned out to be a fucking Crusade of rectal expository and now there is only one left and I have become absolutely obsessed with making it count.  It was the biggest pain in the ass yet to come and I ignored the omens and the portents and just said fuck it.  But, the story of the final syringe, that one is a story on its own.

A Story on Its Own

 

This is the Pac Man back with the third leg of this little trilogy.  This is supposed to be the climatic ending.  I hope it turns out that way.  If you are reading this story out of order stop now and go read “Mom”.  Otherwise, be advised that Darla got the second to the last syringe and there is only one left to go, one final syringe of heart attack juice.  And, I have it and it is driving me absolutely nuts by this point.  And no, I am not going to use it on myself as some of you asshole readers might have expected.  That is the coward’s way out.

I sat on the edge of the Grand Canyon for six hours drinking Jack Daniels and didn’t come up with a target and didn’t fall off.  My next bright idea was to commune with some outlaw Indians I knew on a nearby reservation.  We smoked peyote and drank moonshine and fired guns and laughed a bunch, but that brought me no closer to my next target.  Around the campfire at night I would tell the Indians real stories about what I did for a living.  They were very impressed and always wanted more stories.  When I decided to move on they were sad.  They wanted even more stories.  But by now that last syringe was burning a hole in my brain.  I continued on my journey.

I called Linda Lui from the last story.  She had turned herself into a successful promoter and was making money hand over foot.  She had a mansion on the edge of the desert and there I stayed for thirty days.  I got up every morning and watched the sunrise hoping for inspiration, but alas nothing came.  Finally, Linda got sick and tired of my whining and carrying on and threatened to throw me out if I didn’t shut the fuck up about that damn syringe.  In fact, she took that syringe and the titanium cigar case it came in and locked them in her floor save beneath the fireplace.  I lasted six days.  She packed me into her Cadillac and told me to step off.  Now that hurt.

I don’t even remember where I drove from there.  I just drove until I needed gas or sleep, and then started driving again.  I didn’t use a map or GPS.  I just turned when I felt like it and kept going when so inclined.  I ended up at some rather strange places where people looked at me like Eurotrash or something.  But, I didn’t care.  I was on a mission to where I do not know to find a target equally as nebulous.  I ran Linda’s Caddy into about a hundred traffic barrels outside of Chicago and left it in a rest area smoldering. A couple of cougars saw me park the spent Caddy and offered me a ride into town.  It took a couple weeks for me to get back on track.

So there I am sailing down I-94 eastbound in this Jag I stole from cougar number two and it comes to me where to go next.  Niagara Falls.  It might have been the roadside sign speaking to me and the Jack in the passenger seat didn’t help, but Niagara Falls here I came.  When I arrived all I knew I had to dump the Jag and was overcome with youthful stupidity.  I decided to send it over the falls, at night, with a dummy inside.  Long story short it took a while to find the proper launching site.  For three days I threw big-ass logs into the river just to see where they went.  The last thing I did was inflate an automatic inflatable life raft in the rear compartment of that Jag, drop a brick on the gas, slam the door, and watch it dive into the water.  The hardest thing was getting back to the falls before the Jag.  I did that on a sport bike.  I don’t have a bucket list, but if I did, this would go on it retroactively.  Anyway, the tourists got quite a show that night.

I had tried everything.  I had tried Intel, newspapers, the Internets, TV, radio, Satellite radio, spiritual stuff, logical stuff, scientific stuff and all for naught.  I still had no one good to stick with that last fucking syringe.  I mean, I had a zillion targets, but just not one single worthy target—whatever the Hell that was at the time.  I made another list: Chastity Bono, Cher, Boris Badinoff, John McEnroe, That to catch a predator guy (what an exploitative asshole!), Clay, Peter Campbell, the Car Fax fox, 99% of all female comedians, Vegans, Oliver Stone,  Ted Danson, Janet Jackson, The ShamWow guy, Glee and so on and so forth, but none those names moved the needle, so to speak.

Right about then I made a horrible mistake.  So caught up in my little artificial dilemma was I, I didn’t notice much about what was around me for a bit too long.  I was in a rented Cadillac under an assumed name, just like Linda’s.  It seemed like thirty seconds into downtown Cleveland all Hell broke loose.  I used every gun and every bullet in the car practically.  That is about all I can tell you about that.  It was hairy and I barely unfucked myself.  More than one person died teaching me that lesson.  More like about nine.

So, now I am in Kentucky skirting small towns in a stolen Mini-Van full of car seats and baby puke.  It was the third one I had stolen in the last two hours and it was by far the worst smelly.  I rolled that skunk into a busy intersection when I was done with it so it would get smashed up real good—and it did.  Somebody had to have got killed in that wreck, but I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.  This time I grabbed a Saab.  It rocked.

So, I Googled the most hated person on Earth and Google came up with Justin Bieber and a bunch of people who were already dead and Charles Manson and Bush.  No, no, no, and fuck no. I voted for both.  And here I am on page three of this story and still no target is in sight.  The reader is probably getting bored by now.  Fuck you reader.  Have some faith.

After the aforementioned scare, my butt stayed on constant alert.  I didn’t sleep for three days and changed cars twenty times.  I found myself in LA driving a Harley Davidson Fatboy down Rodeo Drive.  I need to say this.  If murder is ever legalized, I am going straight to Rodeo Drive with an assault weapon and extra clips.  But that day I was still on my syringe quest and still without a target and that is exactly when Paris Hilton pranced out in front of the Harley.  I didn’t hit her hard, but she landed on her head and was real woozy.  There were far too many witnesses, so I just jacked her onto the back of my bike and lit out of there in a hail of smoke and exhaust.  I was into Hollywood Hills before Paris told me she didn’t remember my name and she had to pee.  We just happened to be near a small patch of woods so I stopped.  Oh my God, I thought, this is perfect.  Everybody hates Paris Hilton.  I quickly dug through my duffel bag and found the syringe, and then trotted off into the woods after that Hilton bitch.  As luck would have it she was lying on the ground, her panties and mini-shorts around her ankles, a dull stare in her eyes and bugs crawling all over her.  Shit!  She was already dead!

I left her where she fell.  Turns out it wasn’t really Paris Hilton, but a Paris Hilton look-alike trying to promote her act.  I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.  Since I was still stuck with the syringe, I was sad.

I had intentionally provided for thousands of opportunities for something completely unexpected to happen, and it had not.  No matter what I did or tried to do, my brain just would not lock onto a viable target when I was sober.  I called in a radio talk show one morning and asked the talk show guy what I could do.  He laughed thinking it was a joke and then told me to inject his ex-wife.  He’ll never knew how close I came to doing exactly that.  Instead, I shot her in the face seven times, at close range, with hollow point bullets.  I sent the talk show guy a bill.  I thought that was ironic.

One night in Memphis I got drunk and took a hooker back to my room.  We had a great time right up until her pimp busted into the room and tried robbing me.  I acted all scared and stuff and when he dropped his guard I snapped his neck.  Then I snapped the hooker’s neck.  Just to be cute I left a scribbled suicide note.  I bet that gave the cops fits.  Just for the Hell of it I went and shot the talk show guy in the face seven times with hollow point bullets and left another suicide note.  This was getting good to me and I did it several more times before it played out—and I still had that stupid fucking syringe to use.

I walked into a hospital in Atlanta one day with the intention of putting some poor, suffering soul out of their misery, but ended up shooting a doctor, a nurse and a janitor.  I took that as a bad omen and got out of Dodge.  I went to a Hospice, but it just made me feel sick and I left holding my mouth.  So, now I knew there was no Good Samaritan way to dispense with that syringe.  I went back to exploring evil ways.

When I was first recruited by the NSA they called themselves the NSD.  The guy who recruited me was this pale-faced spook of many decades.  I think he started in the Civil War or something.  His job wasn’t that hard.  Shrink tests had sorted out the likely candidates well in advance. (I found all this out later.)  This guy was just pushing the paper and handed out orders.  They trained me for a year and then let me loose on society with two standing orders: 1. Complete the mission.  2. Never get caught.  And that is exactly what I did.  Most of the time I just planted or removed bugs, tailed people or conducted surveillance, but once in a while the work got a bit wetter.  I would never brag about that stuff, but I was damn good.

The first time they send you to kill one of your own it is really a buzz.  It’s best if you can do it fast because the more you have to think about it the harder it becomes.  And, if you think too long, you could go off the reservation, and then someone comes looking for your ass.  Mine was easy.  It was a girl.  The dumb bitch got false flagged by some French guy and then lied about it, so she died in Findley, Ohio.  A car ran over her face.  She probably didn’t feel a thing.

The second was harder, and I can’t talk about that one.

All this reminiscing made me stop and think and that is exactly when I came up with my idea.  Suddenly I realized that I could make that single syringe kill as many people as I wanted and most likely exactly the people I wanted.  So that is exactly what I proceeded doing.  A few seconds later I was driving to Hell, Michigan and only made one stop along the way.

Hell Michigan is a small town in Southern Michigan near a bunch of lakes.  On Highland Court, at the end of the street sits a house an old friend of mine used to live in but has since been lost to the banks and now sits abandoned.  It is surrounded by lowlands actually, and swamp and critters and bugs and snakes and has been known to flood every other year.  At this time you could barely even see the small cottage because of all the growth around it.  My old friend, who I had been inducted into the Marines with, had described it perfectly and as I stood there gazing at it I could only imagine what it had once been.  The nearest house was a hundred yards away and abandoned, too.  This was going to be easy.

The note I sent, written on the back of the MapQuest map I sent to the NSA, said the following:  The last syringe is here.

I was camouflaged to the bone, three hundred yards due south, and a hundred foot up in an oak tree when I spotted the first operative creeping in the high grass toward the cottage.  And then I saw another directly below me and I prayed he didn’t decide to climb my tree to provide over-watch, and he didn’t.  He got greedy and moved a few trees closer.  A few seconds later I could see operatives sneaking in from all directions, each of them armed to the teeth and each as stealthy as cougars.  When they were all in position, I heard a helicopter approaching from the east and could see that Patterson Lake road had been shut down completely.  There were black Suburbans everywhere, but that was it.  When the helicopter was overhead, the operators struck from all directions with flash-bang grenades threw the windows and buckshot to the door locks.  That is when they must have noticed the syringe hanging from a dozen Claymore land mines duct taped to the ceiling fan.  A sign hung from a string below the syringe.  It read: don’t move.

I was watching and listening.  I let the tension rise and listened to frantic conversations about what to do between the operators and their handlers.  Motion sensor bombs are like impossible to defeat.  All they could do was stand there and sweat.  Finally, I keyed my little mic and said: Take off all your clothes.  I was broadcasting via a tired old, dusty ghetto-blaster strategically located in a dark corner.  After a little prodding I had twelve naked operators sweating their balls off in this oven of a cottage on a hot summer afternoon and was loving it.  Now came the kicker.  This is what I said:  If one of you takes that syringe and injects yourself, all the others will live.  You have five minutes to decide.

Of course by now they know I am somewhere in the vicinity and everyone not in the cottage takes off looking.  They ran into all kinds of snares and booby traps meant to cause debilitating injuries but not death.  I could hear a lot of yelling and screaming from my perch up in that Oak.  My mic actually went to a repeater in another tree five hundred yards north of me, but I hadn’t really transmitted long enough for them to triangulate.  I turned the mic off just to be sure.

Back inside the cottage the operatives were having a come to Jesus talk.  They knew I was skilled enough to rig that bomb exactly as it looked.  There was no way out but through some serious altruism and my good graces.  Finally, this bald guy volunteers to take the syringe, and he closes his eyes and stabs himself in the belly, of all places, with that syringe and pumped fifty cc’s of my urine into his intestines.  I have to tell you, it was the funniest thing I ever seen.  He was so dramatic and shit about it. He stood there crying but with a stout chin waiting for death to come.  He even placed his hand over his chest.  Finally he asks, “How long does it take this stuff to work?”

“You should be dead by now,” someone replied.

“Maybe you should lie down,” offered someone else.

Then the guy with the syringe gets around to looking up at the Claymore and realizes something is wrong.  “Front Toward Enema” is in big letters on every last one of them.  “Hey,” he says, “what the fuck?”

I repelled down the tree and hightailed it out of the vicinity immediately after that.  Some NSA guy found everything but not before I had an hour of video and audio which I of course posted up on YouTube, but hardly anyone gets to see it because the NSA hacks it almost as soon as it goes up.  Bastards.

I know you thought I was going to go out in a blaze of explosions, gunfire and glory and I am sorry if this disappoints you, but that’s the breaks.  I squirted that last shot of heart attack juice into a possum that scared the shit out of me when I was in the cottage setting up my elaborate trap.  I couldn’t shoot the little prick.  I was afraid someone might hear the shot.  I Fed Ex’d the carcass to the NSA.  For some reason that stupid possum gave me a change of heart and I decided to spare, for the most part, the NSA guys.  Go figure.

 

A Story on Its Own

 

This is the Pac Man back with the third leg of this little trilogy.  This is supposed to be the climatic ending.  I hope it turns out that way.  If you are reading this story out of order stop now and go read “Mom”.  Otherwise, be advised that Darla got the second to the last syringe and there is only one left to go, one final syringe of heart attack juice.  And, I have it and it is driving me absolutely nuts by this point.  And no, I am not going to use it on myself as some of you asshole readers might have expected.  That is the coward’s way out.

I sat on the edge of the Grand Canyon for six hours drinking Jack Daniels and didn’t come up with a target and didn’t fall off.  My next bright idea was to commune with some outlaw Indians I knew on a nearby reservation.  We smoked peyote and drank moonshine and fired guns and laughed a bunch, but that brought me no closer to my next target.  Around the campfire at night I would tell the Indians real stories about what I did for a living.  They were very impressed and always wanted more stories.  When I decided to move on they were sad.  They wanted even more stories.  But by now that last syringe was burning a hole in my brain.  I continued on my journey.

I called Linda Lui from the last story.  She had turned herself into a successful promoter and was making money hand over foot.  She had a mansion on the edge of the desert and there I stayed for thirty days.  I got up every morning and watched the sunrise hoping for inspiration, but alas nothing came.  Finally, Linda got sick and tired of my whining and carrying on and threatened to throw me out if I didn’t shut the fuck up about that damn syringe.  In fact, she took that syringe and the titanium cigar case it came in and locked them in her floor save beneath the fireplace.  I lasted six days.  She packed me into her Cadillac and told me to step off.  Now that hurt.

I don’t even remember where I drove from there.  I just drove until I needed gas or sleep, and then started driving again.  I didn’t use a map or GPS.  I just turned when I felt like it and kept going when so inclined.  I ended up at some rather strange places where people looked at me like Eurotrash or something.  But, I didn’t care.  I was on a mission to where I do not know to find a target equally as nebulous.  I ran Linda’s Caddy into about a hundred traffic barrels outside of Chicago and left it in a rest area smoldering. A couple of cougars saw me park the spent Caddy and offered me a ride into town.  It took a couple weeks for me to get back on track.

So there I am sailing down I-94 eastbound in this Jag I stole from cougar number two and it comes to me where to go next.  Niagara Falls.  It might have been the roadside sign speaking to me and the Jack in the passenger seat didn’t help, but Niagara Falls here I came.  When I arrived all I knew I had to dump the Jag and was overcome with youthful stupidity.  I decided to send it over the falls, at night, with a dummy inside.  Long story short it took a while to find the proper launching site.  For three days I threw big-ass logs into the river just to see where they went.  The last thing I did was inflate an automatic inflatable life raft in the rear compartment of that Jag, drop a brick on the gas, slam the door, and watch it dive into the water.  The hardest thing was getting back to the falls before the Jag.  I did that on a sport bike.  I don’t have a bucket list, but if I did, this would go on it retroactively.  Anyway, the tourists got quite a show that night.

I had tried everything.  I had tried Intel, newspapers, the Internets, TV, radio, Satellite radio, spiritual stuff, logical stuff, scientific stuff and all for naught.  I still had no one good to stick with that last fucking syringe.  I mean, I had a zillion targets, but just not one single worthy target—whatever the Hell that was at the time.  I made another list: Chastity Bono, Cher, Boris Badinoff, John McEnroe, That to catch a predator guy (what an exploitative asshole!), Clay, Peter Campbell, the Car Fax fox, 99% of all female comedians, Vegans, Oliver Stone,  Ted Danson, Janet Jackson, The ShamWow guy, Glee and so on and so forth, but none those names moved the needle, so to speak.

Right about then I made a horrible mistake.  So caught up in my little artificial dilemma was I, I didn’t notice much about what was around me for a bit too long.  I was in a rented Cadillac under an assumed name, just like Linda’s.  It seemed like thirty seconds into downtown Cleveland all Hell broke loose.  I used every gun and every bullet in the car practically.  That is about all I can tell you about that.  It was hairy and I barely unfucked myself.  More than one person died teaching me that lesson.  More like about nine.

So, now I am in Kentucky skirting small towns in a stolen Mini-Van full of car seats and baby puke.  It was the third one I had stolen in the last two hours and it was by far the worst smelly.  I rolled that skunk into a busy intersection when I was done with it so it would get smashed up real good—and it did.  Somebody had to have got killed in that wreck, but I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.  This time I grabbed a Saab.  It rocked.

So, I Googled the most hated person on Earth and Google came up with Justin Bieber and a bunch of people who were already dead and Charles Manson and Bush.  No, no, no, and fuck no. I voted for both.  And here I am on page three of this story and still no target is in sight.  The reader is probably getting bored by now.  Fuck you reader.  Have some faith.

After the aforementioned scare, my butt stayed on constant alert.  I didn’t sleep for three days and changed cars twenty times.  I found myself in LA driving a Harley Davidson Fatboy down Rodeo Drive.  I need to say this.  If murder is ever legalized, I am going straight to Rodeo Drive with an assault weapon and extra clips.  But that day I was still on my syringe quest and still without a target and that is exactly when Paris Hilton pranced out in front of the Harley.  I didn’t hit her hard, but she landed on her head and was real woozy.  There were far too many witnesses, so I just jacked her onto the back of my bike and lit out of there in a hail of smoke and exhaust.  I was into Hollywood Hills before Paris told me she didn’t remember my name and she had to pee.  We just happened to be near a small patch of woods so I stopped.  Oh my God, I thought, this is perfect.  Everybody hates Paris Hilton.  I quickly dug through my duffel bag and found the syringe, and then trotted off into the woods after that Hilton bitch.  As luck would have it she was lying on the ground, her panties and mini-shorts around her ankles, a dull stare in her eyes and bugs crawling all over her.  Shit!  She was already dead!

I left her where she fell.  Turns out it wasn’t really Paris Hilton, but a Paris Hilton look-alike trying to promote her act.  I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.  Since I was still stuck with the syringe, I was sad.

I had intentionally provided for thousands of opportunities for something completely unexpected to happen, and it had not.  No matter what I did or tried to do, my brain just would not lock onto a viable target when I was sober.  I called in a radio talk show one morning and asked the talk show guy what I could do.  He laughed thinking it was a joke and then told me to inject his ex-wife.  He’ll never knew how close I came to doing exactly that.  Instead, I shot her in the face seven times, at close range, with hollow point bullets.  I sent the talk show guy a bill.  I thought that was ironic.

One night in Memphis I got drunk and took a hooker back to my room.  We had a great time right up until her pimp busted into the room and tried robbing me.  I acted all scared and stuff and when he dropped his guard I snapped his neck.  Then I snapped the hooker’s neck.  Just to be cute I left a scribbled suicide note.  I bet that gave the cops fits.  Just for the Hell of it I went and shot the talk show guy in the face seven times with hollow point bullets and left another suicide note.  This was getting good to me and I did it several more times before it played out—and I still had that stupid fucking syringe to use.

I walked into a hospital in Atlanta one day with the intention of putting some poor, suffering soul out of their misery, but ended up shooting a doctor, a nurse and a janitor.  I took that as a bad omen and got out of Dodge.  I went to a Hospice, but it just made me feel sick and I left holding my mouth.  So, now I knew there was no Good Samaritan way to dispense with that syringe.  I went back to exploring evil ways.

When I was first recruited by the NSA they called themselves the NSD.  The guy who recruited me was this pale-faced spook of many decades.  I think he started in the Civil War or something.  His job wasn’t that hard.  Shrink tests had sorted out the likely candidates well in advance. (I found all this out later.)  This guy was just pushing the paper and handed out orders.  They trained me for a year and then let me loose on society with two standing orders: 1. Complete the mission.  2. Never get caught.  And that is exactly what I did.  Most of the time I just planted or removed bugs, tailed people or conducted surveillance, but once in a while the work got a bit wetter.  I would never brag about that stuff, but I was damn good.

The first time they send you to kill one of your own it is really a buzz.  It’s best if you can do it fast because the more you have to think about it the harder it becomes.  And, if you think too long, you could go off the reservation, and then someone comes looking for your ass.  Mine was easy.  It was a girl.  The dumb bitch got false flagged by some French guy and then lied about it, so she died in Findley, Ohio.  A car ran over her face.  She probably didn’t feel a thing.

The second was harder, and I can’t talk about that one.

All this reminiscing made me stop and think and that is exactly when I came up with my idea.  Suddenly I realized that I could make that single syringe kill as many people as I wanted and most likely exactly the people I wanted.  So that is exactly what I proceeded doing.  A few seconds later I was driving to Hell, Michigan and only made one stop along the way.

Hell Michigan is a small town in Southern Michigan near a bunch of lakes.  On Highland Court, at the end of the street sits a house an old friend of mine used to live in but has since been lost to the banks and now sits abandoned.  It is surrounded by lowlands actually, and swamp and critters and bugs and snakes and has been known to flood every other year.  At this time you could barely even see the small cottage because of all the growth around it.  My old friend, who I had been inducted into the Marines with, had described it perfectly and as I stood there gazing at it I could only imagine what it had once been.  The nearest house was a hundred yards away and abandoned, too.  This was going to be easy.

The note I sent, written on the back of the MapQuest map I sent to the NSA, said the following:  The last syringe is here.

I was camouflaged to the bone, three hundred yards due south, and a hundred foot up in an oak tree when I spotted the first operative creeping in the high grass toward the cottage.  And then I saw another directly below me and I prayed he didn’t decide to climb my tree to provide over-watch, and he didn’t.  He got greedy and moved a few trees closer.  A few seconds later I could see operatives sneaking in from all directions, each of them armed to the teeth and each as stealthy as cougars.  When they were all in position, I heard a helicopter approaching from the east and could see that Patterson Lake road had been shut down completely.  There were black Suburbans everywhere, but that was it.  When the helicopter was overhead, the operators struck from all directions with flash-bang grenades threw the windows and buckshot to the door locks.  That is when they must have noticed the syringe hanging from a dozen Claymore land mines duct taped to the ceiling fan.  A sign hung from a string below the syringe.  It read: don’t move.

I was watching and listening.  I let the tension rise and listened to frantic conversations about what to do between the operators and their handlers.  Motion sensor bombs are like impossible to defeat.  All they could do was stand there and sweat.  Finally, I keyed my little mic and said: Take off all your clothes.  I was broadcasting via a tired old, dusty ghetto-blaster strategically located in a dark corner.  After a little prodding I had twelve naked operators sweating their balls off in this oven of a cottage on a hot summer afternoon and was loving it.  Now came the kicker.  This is what I said:  If one of you takes that syringe and injects yourself, all the others will live.  You have five minutes to decide.

Of course by now they know I am somewhere in the vicinity and everyone not in the cottage takes off looking.  They ran into all kinds of snares and booby traps meant to cause debilitating injuries but not death.  I could hear a lot of yelling and screaming from my perch up in that Oak.  My mic actually went to a repeater in another tree five hundred yards north of me, but I hadn’t really transmitted long enough for them to triangulate.  I turned the mic off just to be sure.

Back inside the cottage the operatives were having a come to Jesus talk.  They knew I was skilled enough to rig that bomb exactly as it looked.  There was no way out but through some serious altruism and my good graces.  Finally, this bald guy volunteers to take the syringe, and he closes his eyes and stabs himself in the belly, of all places, with that syringe and pumped fifty cc’s of my urine into his intestines.  I have to tell you, it was the funniest thing I ever seen.  He was so dramatic and shit about it. He stood there crying but with a stout chin waiting for death to come.  He even placed his hand over his chest.  Finally he asks, “How long does it take this stuff to work?”

“You should be dead by now,” someone replied.

“Maybe you should lie down,” offered someone else.

Then the guy with the syringe gets around to looking up at the Claymore and realizes something is wrong.  “Front Toward Enema” is in big letters on every last one of them.  “Hey,” he says, “what the fuck?”

I repelled down the tree and hightailed it out of the vicinity immediately after that.  Some NSA guy found everything but not before I had an hour of video and audio which I of course posted up on YouTube, but hardly anyone gets to see it because the NSA hacks it almost as soon as it goes up.  Bastards.

I know you thought I was going to go out in a blaze of explosions, gunfire and glory and I am sorry if this disappoints you, but that’s the breaks.  I squirted that last shot of heart attack juice into a possum that scared the shit out of me when I was in the cottage setting up my elaborate trap.  I couldn’t shoot the little prick.  I was afraid someone might hear the shot.  I Fed Ex’d the carcass to the NSA.  For some reason that stupid possum gave me a change of heart and I decided to spare, for the most part, the NSA guys.  Go figure.